


Unto Thee, O Lord, Will I Sing

by Sp00py



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Biting, Body Horror, Brainwashing, Caging, Chapter 5 Spoilers, Consensual Sex, Crushing, Happyverse Bendy, Horror, Hunting, Isolation, Orgasm Denial, Other, Ownership, Strangulation, Surreal rape, Wax Play, Worship, but it's ink, eldritch Bendy, got all varieties of Bendy here, mindgames, petting, tags to be added as I update, tiny cute Bendy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-08-09 19:39:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16456058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: Bendy enjoys being worshiped, and who’s better at worshipping Him than one Sammy Lawrence? So Bendy decides to make it a more permanent arrangement.





	1. Claimed

Sammy Lawrence knows many things. Not unimportant things like what he used to look like, or what the world used to be, but very important things like Bendy is his Lord, Bendy demands sacrifice, Bendy controls the studio. It’s His ink that pumps through the pipes in the walls, that coats the floor and drips from the ceiling. Sammy knows this because he hears Him. A ceaseless whisper that follows Sammy cutout to cutout, telling him about his God.

At first he hadn’t heard the whispers distinctly, but then he hadn’t known how to listen. He’d been naive, foolish, and afraid. Sammy had wandered these halls he now knows so well, confused and lost, constantly following noises to dead ends and monsters.

It had been maddening, being alone. His thoughts bubbled sluggish and thick as ink, tried to drown him. He was unfocused and skittish, felt a sense of unease that burrowed deep into his person. These four, thick fingers weren’t his, this amorphous, flat face wasn’t his. He tried not to think on them, except to think of freedom from them. But what _was_ his? Nothing.

However… He didn’t know who he was, but he knew he had some purpose, and it ached to not be able to fulfill it. What was life without purpose? Was it living at all, was _this_ really living?

That was when the whispers started to become a little more clear. _Worship Me,_   _Sammy._ _Love Me — heh — be My disciple, Sammy._

Sammy. His name was Sammy. Bendy had named him. Sammy Lawrence, He knew, somehow, some forgotten memory, that it was Bendy Himself speaking to Sammy. And now Sammy could put together puzzle pieces that hadn’t fit together before. Sammy Lawrence, Music Director, written on the walls.

It was only fitting this place bearing his name became his entire world. He gathered up fragmented memories of flitting songs and half-remembered notes. He began to recreate who Sammy Lawrence was. He did this for Bendy, because, as he was starting to realize, he existed because of Bendy.

He never slept, and the whispers never ended. They dug into his mind like a worm, black and glistening, a song that Sammy couldn’t get out of his head, one he didn’t want out of his head. He was so alone without Bendy; he needed Bendy’s presence. _Worship Me. Love Me. Kneel before Me. Sammy. Sammy. Sammy._

So Sammy knelt. Bendy had given him an identity. Had given him a purpose. The searchers learned to fear him, as now he walked these halls knowing they were his, given to him by his Lord. He had so much to be thankful for.

The whispering grew clearer every day. Commands for him to sacrifice, to sing, for him to litter the studio with cutouts, with symbols and candles and sites of worship.

Now, each of these he does gladly, sacrificing the creatures who sometimes stumbled up through the utility shafts, placing cutouts around every corner, worshiping at every site. He sings the old songs. He sings them over and over, whistles when he isn’t singing, always knowing Bendy is listening. It pleases him to please his Lord.

Sammy finds comfort in the whispering, in its unending sigh throughout the music department. He knows he is chosen by Bendy. He knows he is special, unlike the crawling, blind searchers, unlike the twisted creatures who find their way here sometimes. He is chosen by his Lord.

He still fears Bendy, as one should always fear their God, but now it isn’t the animalistic fear of some stupid ink creature. It is a holy fear, a fear born of awe and love.

He never sees Bendy fully, despite all this, despite wanting so badly to see Him. Only glimpses far away of a figure moving in darkness. Only the cutouts. Sammy doesn’t question why Bendy would deny him. He questions nothing Bendy wants. Bendy is his God, and that is all that matters. He’ll reveal himself when He is ready. So untold days blend together in worship and praise, in sacrifice and song.

And this is how he expects this day to go. A strange man, familiar in the way the name Sammy Lawrence is from some past life, tied up for sacrifice. A sheep come to slaughter, led here just for Sammy. Everything, after all, happens by Bendy’s will. Every creature that finds its way into Sammy’s domain, every occurrence, dictated by the great conductor that is his Lord. And one day, one day Bendy will release him from this body, this half-formed shell that traps him. One day, Sammy knows, he will be so gracious to his most ardent disciple.

He leaves his sacrifice tied nice and tightly for his Lord and retreats into a small side office connected to the other room by speakers. A microphone sits on the desk. Sammy leans in and flicks it on. A familiar motion.

“Sheep, sheep, sheep, it’s time for sleep,” Sammy croons into the mic. It’s all about the presentation, the ritual he follows so faithfully. “Rest your head, it’s time for bed.”

The ritual continues. The door rises. The walls turn to writhing ink, the screams of the sacrifice will follow —

The sacrifice doesn’t scream.

Sammy’s head snaps up from the mic. The room is coated in an undulating layer of nightmarish ink. And emerging from the wall as though it’s just air not solid wood is a creature — a monster — something that stops the ink pumping through Sammy’s heart. Sammy knows without knowing how that this is Bendy, this is his Lord, though He looks nothing like the cutouts. That holy fear, that fear born of love, is instantly replaced with the bestial instinct to survive. Even half-formed as Sammy is, even twisted and drowning in the ink, it’s so much better than being — than being _nothing_.

And somehow, in some vile way, Sammy knows that if Bendy touches him he’ll be nothing. Despite all his praise, despite his efforts and his worship. Despite how he was _chosen_. He’s nothing before his Lord. Bendy will consume him.

Sammy’s legs won’t work right; his body feels possessed by some alien creature. He stumbles away. Bendy steps closer, grin wide and emotionless, skeletal body glistening with fresh ink. One hand is white-gloved, the other a grasping, spidery black. He’s a dark, malevolent God. The whispers are silent, now. Sammy hasn’t experienced true silence until now, and it’s deafening. The walls seem to be closing in, claustrophobic and dark. Everything’s dark, everything pulses.

He falls to his knees as though someone has cut his tendons. He doesn’t think to, he simply does. His words are thick with fear, nonsensical, as though he could command Bendy to do anything. He’s been so foolish, so _arrogant._ And now he knows he must pay, though he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to.

“No, my Lord! Stay back! I am your prophet! I am your —“

Bendy grabs Sammy’s head in his gloved hand, and Sammy screams. The noise Bendy makes in response is hellish, indescribable.

Bendy slams his face against the ground, once, twice, thrice. His mask cracks. The world goes dark. Something oozes out of his face. More ink. Ink that shouldn’t be dripping.

He’s flung across the desk, and falls off the other side, taking the microphone with him. Sammy scrambles blindly, pathetically away, one hand to his face, hiding his shame from his Lord, the other groping for the door into the sacrificial chamber. If he could just show him his proper —

Bendy takes a sucking, wet step toward him. Then another.

“My Lord, please, I beg you — Please, Bendy,” Sammy moans, hoping supplication might save him. Bendy grabs his leg and undoes what little progress he’d made with a wrenching ease. Something pops and new pain blossoms from his hip. Another hand. Another. Too many latch on, hold Sammy down. One presses against his face, smothering his cries and pleas.

Bendy kneels before him, though it’s clearly no sign of submission as His figure still looms tall and angular above Sammy, His sightless gaze is fixated on Sammy, and suddenly Sammy feels an amount of shame that almost overrides his fear for the briefest of moments. He’s half-formed and hideous, too cocky, too naive, not worthy of his Lord in any way.

Bendy’s hands loosen but don’t let go. Several start to meander across his body. The fear returns like a crashing wave, sucking Sammy out to sea. Bendy can so easily rip him apart, devour him, do anything He wants to Sammy. And Sammy is powerless to stop Him. He is Bendy’s, wholly.

“My Lord,” Sammy mutters reverently. He’s in turmoil inside, wanting to escape, wanting to serve — half his thoughts don’t even feel his own, they feel like the whispers pressing in on him, molding him.

Bendy sticks His fingers into Sammy’s mouth, and he gags.

More fingers dig into his pants, rip them with ease, leaving Sammy exposed before his Lord. He’s unworthy. He’s terrified. He knows that only pain will follow. All he can do is stare without seeing. Without his mask.

Bendy presses himself against Sammy and agony laces up his spine. It’s a wet, slapping melding of the two at the hips, and every thrust from Bendy hurts, every movement makes Sammy gasp and thrash. It _hurts_ so deeply, like he’s being pulled apart, chunk by chunk. He begs Bendy to stop.

Bendy ignores his cries. _He should_ , a part of Sammy’s brain thinks. _You deserve this_. _You_ want _this. You wanted_ _Him to notice you._ These aren’t his thoughts, are they? Sammy can’t tell anymore. All he can feel is agony.

“No, no, no, Bendy, please!” He says around the fingers in his mouth. It comes out muffled and stupid-sounding. Pure gibberish. His own fingers dig into Bendy’s arms, any of them, any he can reach. He’s too weak to push Him away, too weak to do anything.

It’s been a very, very long time since Sammy Lawrence has felt weak, but Bendy has undone him so easily, undone all his confidence, all his sureness. He’s just a puppet, he realizes that now, as he’s pumped into and held down so easily. Fingers are _inside_ of him, digging into his stomach, between the gaps of his ribs, melting into the flesh of his arms. Sammy is just something to be used. His God is so much crueler than he thought. How Sammy could have expected otherwise he doesn’t know.

By the time Bendy finishes, Sammy is completely limp in a puddle of his own ink. When Bendy pulls away, Sammy remains unmoving. He barely registers that he’s not dead. It’s an unimportant thought. All thoughts are unimportant, now.

Bendy watches him as he mechanically gets to hands and knees and fumbles for his mask. He needs his mask. He needs to see. He feels naked without it, naked and ashamed and blind before his Lord. It’s broken. How — Oh yes, Bendy broke it. His Lord is punishing him for his arrogance. Sammy hides his face in his hands, turns away from Bendy. He can’t let Him see him like this.

A hand comes to rest gently on the back of his head. It strokes down his neck. Sammy shudders at the touch. Though it pretends to be kind, it’s not. He can feel it.

All he can manage is a faint “urk” as the hand wraps around his throat. The strangulation is slow, slow and agonizing. His hands drop to Bendy’s wrist, but he doesn’t struggle. Not anymore.

“My Lord,” Sammy wheezes out as he’s lifted bodily off of the ground. The world is going dark, and it brings to mind a final, panicked sensation of drowning — he’d done this before, he doesn’t want to go back to the ink, to the voices. He doesn’t, he can’t. Please, Bendy, have mercy. He can’t say it but his mind screams it.

Sammy Lawrence knows many things, now. He knows Bendy doesn’t have mercy.


	2. Kept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tfw u forget ur own headcanons and have to go back and tweak chapter one a bit, lol. So as note: Sammy can’t see without his mask.

Sammy wakes up alone and himself.

He hones in on the latter. He’s himself. He’s whole, restored as though nothing had happened, though his mask is still missing. He’s not dissolved away into the inky lamentations of so many other trapped souls. Sammy has been spared.

That’s a greater relief than he could have expected. He hates his body, knows it’s not what it should be, but it’s his. And Bendy’s. Everything is Bendy’s, his Lord who had finally revealed Himself, only to vanish again. Only to leave behind a ravaged mess. He’s been spared, but at what cost? Everything around him is disorientingly _wrong_.

It’s by Bendy’s will alone that he’s alive, still in this cursed body. Sammy’s head lifts to search for his Savior and Tormentor, as if he can see though he’s blind without his mask — more blind than he’s ever been. These walls aren’t the same wooden drawings as he’s used to. They’re strange, metallic. The ink he’s grown so accustomed to moving through and seeing through isn’t present.

His thoughts are a jumble of sensation and overlapping memories, trapped in the darkness of his mind that he is, but the dread that accompanies it is all-encompassing. His Lord is unlike anything he could have imagined. Vicious beyond measure. Monstrous.

And what Bendy did to him — it was brutal, violent, violating. Sammy can still feel the phantom pressures of Bendy’s hands, of His body melting against him. It had been such a disgusting, intimate thing. Sammy’s ink-skin crawls, though there’s no remnant nor wound on his person to hint at what had happened.

Perhaps Bendy did in fact kill him. The wholeness of his body suggests so. This is a realm where death means little, and Sammy had been so, so sure that Bendy would destroy him for his error. He’s killed others for less, cast them back into the abyss.

Yet Sammy has woken up here instead. Wherever here is, it’s far removed from the world and certainly no abyss. It thrums through Sammy like the whispers had, whispers he can’t hear anymore. It’s a wrongness like being blind is, senses stolen from Sammy and encasing him in the dark void of his own mind. There’s only the grind and clunk of machinery all around, like the noises behind the walls but so much louder, so much more penetrating. He gropes forward, trying to get a sense of this strange, new realm.

He feels out a puddle of ink and gears, traces them up like steps to a softer outline — a seat.

No, a throne.

Sammy scrambles back as though burned. This is Bendy’s lair. He knows this with such a sureness that it must be right. This is His sanctuary, buried deep in the guts of machinery and metal, vastly different from the rest of the studio. It fills Sammy with a reverence that he had never felt before. He’s been granted access to such a private place. He can feel how solitary and isolated he is. It fights with the terror threading through his body.

Sammy would never dare to step up the gears to the seat itself, now that he knows what it is, though he stands in awe at their feet. He’s been chosen to be here. He doesn’t pretend to understand the workings of Bendy’s mind — he’s learned very quickly to not be so presumptuous — but he does wonder. Bendy has proven that he is not kind, even to those who worship him. It’s a lesson branded into Sammy’s very being, which only serves to baffle him more.

He doesn’t know if this is a blessing or a curse, being here. Both, perhaps, in the same way that Bendy is darkness and light, white and black.

The room goes cold, in a bone-deep way that aches. Sammy recognizes the sensation. He’s no longer alone. His Lord is here.

Bendy lurches from behind the throne, and Sammy freezes like prey. He’s exposed without his mask. He prays he’s done nothing to upset Bendy. All he _can_ do is pray, and stand, and wait as Bendy circles around him, presence overpowering. He could so easily hurt him again. Pull him apart, smash his skull in, rape him — Sammy can’t stop thinking of all the horrors Bendy could visit upon him.

Bendy continues to circle, hands close enough to be felt but not touching. Breathing becomes difficult. Sammy’s being strangled all over again, though Bendy hasn’t laid a finger on him. He can feel him in an indescribable way, feel the ink oozing off of his body, feel the stillness where there should be a heartbeat. The machine fills that void with its own throb, slow and unhurried compared to the staccato rhythm of Sammy’s heart. And he realizes something else is missing: the constant presence of others, of those souls he’s never truly escaped from in the writhing masses of ink, in the searchers and characters. It’s quiet. It’s just the two of them.

Bendy does _nothing._ The anticipation is killing Sammy all over again. He dreads what might follow but dreads the wait even more. Like a spring slowly being coiled tighter and tighter. Eventually it will have to release or snap, and both can hurt.

Then Bendy throws something at his feet. It clatters against his boots and he jerks a little.

Sammy kneels slowly, shakily, to examine it. A mask. Identical to his old one. Perhaps it is his old one, remade like Sammy has been. Before he can straighten again, a hand rests dangerously on his skull. Sammy flinches at the contact, terrified at the idea of Bendy touching him.

Silence lingers between the two of them.

“Th-thank you, my Lord,” Sammy mutters, no longer trying to stand. That seems to satisfy Bendy, who drags His twisted body up the gears and into the seat. Projection screens flicker to life with the familiar click-clack of reels turning, though Sammy keeps his head bowed so has no idea what’s playing on them. He slips the mask back on, vision (in a feeble way) is restored, and he doesn’t move from his subservient position.

“Ya did some great work on these cartoons, Sammy Lawrence,” a voice — high pitched, cartoonishly bouncy — says. Sammy doesn’t look up, but can’t imagine it coming from the ink demon. It’s so incongruous. So familiar, though, at the same time. If he just imagines it whispering...  “Why don’t you write anything new though?”

“M-my Lord?” Sammy so desperately wants to see who or what he’s speaking to, but fears looking upon his Lord. He fears angering him like he’s never feared anything before.

“Your ears not workin’? Did I bring ya back wrong?” Bendy wonders aloud.

“N-no, my Lord. I’m exactly as you made me,” Sammy says to the floor. He’s sure, if he cared to check, even the ink splatters on his pants would be the same as before. He’s sometimes had a suspicion that things moved in patterns and repeated. Like an episode played over and over again, but he’s no way to prove it, so simply accepts it as the ability of an all-powerful being.

Bendy sighs. “Your thoughts are so nice, Sammy. I could listen to ‘em all day. Every day. On repeat. In fact, I do. Maybe you can make a song outta them.”

Oh God, He’s inside Sammy’s mind, He knows Sammy’s innermost thoughts. Sammy’s breath stutters. He’s thought such terrible things before, such ungrateful, blasphemous things. He’s weak. He’s mortal. He’s shameful. He deserves punishment for his failures.

“You really like the self-flagellation don’t ya? But gosh do I like it, too. Workin’ yourself into a panic for lil ol’ me. Luckily for you, I already punished ya.”

“My Lord.” It’s all Sammy can think to say.

“Shut up, Sammy. You don’t gotta think now, just look pretty. Let me appreciate the scene.”

Sammy almost replies, but chokes it down. Silence. It’s so silent here. Only Bendy and him. He’s alone with his Lord. He craved this so badly, but never in his wildest imaginings could conjure anything close to the reality. He wants to apologize. He wants to praise Bendy. He wants to run away. He does nothing but kneel.

“Look at me, Sammy.”

Sammy hesitantly raises his face. Who is he to gaze upon his Lord and Master? Yet that is what he commands.

The small creature is somehow more terrifying than the monster Sammy has seen before. He’s cute, round, smiling with dead pie-cut eyes. Any form, Sammy now knows, is His true and proper form, but this is the one Sammy’s most familiar with. Seeing it with dimension and depth is strange, intrinsically wrong yet so right. This is the Being Sammy worships. This is his God. He’s beautiful and horrific.

“Yer such a flatterer. Gonna make me blush,” Bendy says, placing one hand playfully to His cheek and waving the other one at Sammy. “Say those things out loud.”

Sammy forgets how words work for a moment, but dives in, not wanting to displease Bendy. Words tumble over each other, rushed and frantic, so unlike the smooth tones of his songs for sacrifice. “You’re my God. You’re my everything, oh Lord. My inky Savior, my dark Deliverer. You’ve granted me life and purpose. You’re terrifying to behold, and I am unworthy to gaze upon Your form. You’re exquisite and divine. I worship you, Bendy, my Lord. You deserve worship. You deserve love. You deserve sacrifice.”

Bendy hums and kicks His legs, tail lashing in what Sammy hopes is pleasure.

“That’s real nice. You’re a good boy, Sammy Lawrence. Just got a little cocksure before, eh?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Sammy burns with shame at being reminded of his hubris, and the punishment that followed. It twists up his stomach to think of Bendy’s fingers on him, fingers in him, churns the ink inside unpleasantly.

“I do like ya a lot, but you gotta remember your place.”

“On my knees.”

“Hahah, yeah! You’re gettin’ it!” Bendy claps and hops down a step. He waggles a finger right in front of Sammy’s face. “None of that summoning ‘n’ prophet business, got it? I think I’ll call ya something else, so ya don’t get all muddled…” Bendy trails off thoughtfully. “How ‘bout pet? Or plaything? Or puppet? Now I’m stuck on words that start with P.”

Every one of those is dehumanizing, humiliating. Reducing him to nothing. He _is_ nothing before his Lord. Sammy will gladly bear any Bendy chooses. “What-whatever pleases you, my Lord.”

“Plaything it is,” Bendy decides. His hands come to rest on Sammy’s shoulders, and He leans in very close. Sammy tries not to let his thoughts flicker back to when last Bendy touched him. This is an honor. An honor, he reminds himself. “Sammy Lawrence, Music Director and Plaything, welcome to your new home!”

Sammy can’t help but feel a flutter of excitement that he quickly stifles lest Bendy read it as arrogance. He _is_ chosen. As Bendy’s plaything, whatever that shall entail. It’s a frightening role to be in. It should be frightening. And he falls into it so easily, it’s hard to believe he’d ever thought himself so important as to be a prophet before. Almost too easily, though his thoughts skitter away from the implications of his mind not being his own. He knows his worship is his, and that’s all that matters.

“Thank you, Bendy.”


	3. Caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happyverse Monster Bendy makes an appearance, if it wasn’t already obvious that this is leaning v v heavily on that Bendy already.

Bendy pats Sammy’s mask. “Good boy, Sammy. Y’ wanna know a secret?” He giggles as Sammy hesitantly nods. “You’re one a my favorites. You always let me do anything I want to ya.”

“I do?” Sammy asks. He’s never met Bendy before, and he’d hardly consider his reaction to seeing him the first time acceptance of anything, but he doesn’t want to appear ungrateful. He’s one of Bendy’s favorites (and he tries not to think of the pluralization of that).

“Eventually,” Bendy says as though that answers any of the questions welling up in Sammy’s mind. “But the journey’s the fun part. So’s the result. It’s all fun!”

“Yes, my Lord.” Sammy doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to, but that doesn’t matter. He wants to please Bendy, as much as he fears him. Any thought of freedom has vanished like so much ink into the crevices of his mind. It’s much more important to serve. Sammy had been foolish for forgetting that.

“Let’s see, let’s see, what will I do with my Sammy?” Bendy muses, gestures exaggerated as he taps his chin thoughtfully. “How ‘bout we play a game, plaything?”

“A game?”

“Yeah. I’m thinkin’ hide-n-seek. The safe spot is the chair. The play area is, well, everywhere. There’s just one rule — we can’t go through walls. Got it?” He waits for Sammy’s nod. This isn’t what he expects at all of Bendy, but who is he to question his Lord’s will? “Good. I’mma hide first! You count to, uh, fifty.”

“Yes, my Lo—” Bendy swats Sammy’s mask askew and runs away with a laugh, the patter of his feet echoing on the metal floor.

Sammy stays kneeling, gaze firmly locked onto what looks like the head of a Projectionist.

“One, two, three…” he mutters. He’s counting off for hide and seek. The thought seems to stall in his mind. Hide and seek. His Lord could do anything in creation, and this is what He chooses. Away from Bendy Himself it’s easier to think, Sammy’s thoughts aren’t crowded out by worshipworshipworship. There’s just Sammy and his own mind.

“Ten, eleven, twelve…”

His thoughts nonetheless center around Bendy. He’s Sammy’s world, his reason for being. They’re playing hide and seek.

The name of the game sounds familiar, from before, when Sammy Lawrence was just Sammy Lawrence. When he wasn’t Bendy’s. A time he’s not sure really existed. It feels blasphemous to even think of not being Bendy’s. He’s always been Bendy’s. Always been this — yet he knows in his heart there was a before.

“Twenty-six.” Best not to think about it. “Twenty-seven.” He’s here to serve. “Twenty-eight.” The present is all that matters.

This is a childish game and harmless. Something he never could describe Bendy as. Perhaps… perhaps this is some test. Yes, that would make sense. Like the sacrifices. That last sacrifice had gone horribly (wonderfully?) awry. The sacrifice was familiar to Sammy. Different from the others. Perhaps that had been the mistake.

“Forty, forty-one, forty-two…”

Sammy has no clue how this could be a test, but he will do his utmost to serve, to please Bendy. _You’re one of my favorites_. One of.

“Fifty.” Then, as though by reflex alone, Sammy mutters, “Ready or not, my Lord, here I come.” And Sammy’s not at all sure if he’s ready.

After adjusting his mask, Sammy stands and takes in the world around him. There are doors leading away down long, flickering halls. Projection screens play clips of Bendy episodes on repeat. They’re silent. He watches for a few moments, entranced, as Bendy on-screen runs from a skeleton, knees shaking. What a strange version of his Lord this is. Something weak and cowering.

Sammy picks a door and begins the hunt. He goes at a slow pace past glass cases full of ink, full of trapped souls frozen in the agonized throes of creation or death, he doesn’t know which. Some look like Borises, others look like nothing. Sammy knows his own existence lays somewhere between the two. Half-formed.

There aren’t many places _to_ hide, Sammy discovers. Unlike the world outside littered with boxes, furniture, debris, the machine is devoid of all obstacles. It’s pure efficiency. Labyrinthine and pulsing, but all geared toward one purpose. Pumping ink. Bendy has added projectors throughout, splashing His cartoons across the walls, but they’re all without sound. The only noise is the machine. It thrums deep in Sammy’s bones, vibrates through the ink of his body, calls to it.

He can’t find Bendy. He searches high and low, around every corner and door frame. It’s when he comes across a path leading out that he realizes: Bendy had said the play area is everywhere. There’s a whole world outside of the machine that Sammy can’t get to. He’ll dissolve away into the ink before he even makes it halfway.

Is this the test, then? His resolve to be with his Lord, against a sea of ink? It’s so hard to interpret the will of a God.

Sammy stands for a long, long moment contemplating the still, dark mirror of the ink’s surface.  It glistens, oily and foreboding, hiding dark things, hiding screams that tease on the edge of Sammy’s consciousness, beckoning him in while simultaneously repulsing him.

He’s weak. He’s afraid. He wants to serve, but if this is what Bendy’s asking of him…. Sammy’s hesitation disgusts him.

If this is what his Lord wants, then this is what his Lord shall get. He tells himself this, but makes no move into the ink. His body’s betraying him. It says survival is more important than anything else, but Sammy knows — he _knows_ — that’s not true. Worship is more important. Sacrifice.

Love requires sacrifice, though he never thought it would be his own. He has to trust his Lord. If Bendy wants him to survive this, he will. If he wants him to dissolve, then Sammy will do that too. Thinking is the enemy. His fear should be only for his Lord, and he’s so very, very afraid.

He’s about to step into the ink, feeling like some time-ravaged memory of a man walking on water, when a familiar whistle bounces down the hall behind him. Sammy almost topples in in surprise, but stumbles backwards instead and falls to the ground. His ink trembles, the movements just barely visible as they catch the diffused yellow light. A sign. He’s received a sign.

Sammy looks back to where the whistling is coming from.

Bendy’s small figure, face and gloves white in the gloom, is sitting at the base of the throne, kicking his legs. He looks so innocuous yet His presence radiates a crawling, teasing menace that prickles at Sammy’s mind.

Sammy climbs to his feet and stumbles shakily toward Him. Bendy watches, eyes and grin dead. As soon as Sammy’s within touching distance, Bendy scrambles up the gears to the throne itself. “Can’t touch me, I’m on base!”

“M-my Lord.” Sammy sinks down at the foot of the throne. “Bendy.”

“You look a little shook up, Sammy. I was really wonderin’ if you were gonna fling yourself into the ink back there.”

“If that was what you wanted, Bendy.”

“Maybe I did,” Bendy says, then laughs at the spike of panic in Sammy’s thoughts. “It’s a _joke_ , Sammy. Yeesh. You need t’ lighten up. No suiciding just ‘cause yer bad at hide n seek.”

Sammy shakes his head faintly. Bendy’s words make sense but also don’t. He must know the reason for Sammy’s actions, yet He mocks him. It nettles at Sammy to be so oversimplified, so misinterpreted.

Or perhaps it’s his own reasons that are wrong? Yes, that seems much more likely. He’s tried and failed yet again to interpret his Lord’s will. Bendy is correct. Bendy is infallible, but Sammy is flawed and _wrong_. Bendy is simply putting him on the right and true path.

“I apologize, my Lord.”

“Anyway,” Bendy says dismissively, neither accepting nor rejecting Sammy’s words. “Now it’s your turn to hide and my turn to find you. I’ll even make it easier for ya.”

“My Lord?”

“Like this!”

Without warning Bendy’s form melts, mutates, elongates before Sammy’s mask-eyes. It’s a process that looks agonizing to watch, ink twisting up and splashing down. Any words die in Sammy’s throat. He shouldn’t be seeing this. _He shouldn’t be seeing this_. It’s like pulling back the veil and revealing the true monster underneath. He can’t look away.

“One,” Bendy says as spines rise like a mountain ridge along his back. “Two.” His teeth turn sharp, and a long, dark tongue flicks out. “Thrrrreeee…” the word dies in a guttural growl. Bendy continues to contort, limbs skeletal and so, so long, back hunched, body better suited for all fours than not.

Somehow, this is worse even than the ink demon whose shape so resembles Sammy and the others. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen here, all angles and jagged pieces not found in ink. Not normally, at least. But the ink bows to Bendy’s will as all things do.

Sammy runs. The sound that follows him might be intended to be the number four, but it feels like broken glass, sounds more like a warning: if he’s found, he’ll regret it in wholly new ways. Ways he cannot even fathom.

The glass tombs flash past him, the doors ease open so slowly Sammy feels that at any moment he’s going to be caught, be ripped apart.

Noises follow him. Bendy doesn’t. Not yet. He still has time, but nowhere to hide. All he can do is run and… and… It’s a game. There are rules. No going through walls, the throne is safe. Sammy can’t let Bendy touch him, he can’t endure that again, as much as he loves his Lord.

He needs to circle back to the throne. Or throw himself into the ink. Either seem preferable to the fear burning inside of him. Bendy has so easily reminded Sammy that he is just an animal to Him. Just prey and plaything.

Sammy finds a small, hard to-reach corner and presses himself into it. It’s hardly _hiding_ but it’s something out of the way. If he’s careful and cautious, he hopes to be able to make it back to the throne. It’s a futile hope — this isn’t a world that fosters hope easily — but it is hope.

Sammy holds his mask on as though it’ll be snatched away any second, senses alert for the movements of his Lord. Crawling. Crawling through the corridors instead of the pipes and walls.

He hears Him soon enough. Claws dragging, ink dripping. The doors part for Him. He is coming closer.

Sammy cowers further against the wall as Bendy’s glorious head bobs into view. He tosses back and forth, as though searching out what he cannot see. Sammy stays very, very still.

The seconds linger as Bendy stalks past Sammy, into another hall. His body seems to go on forever, long and serpentine. But then it passes. Like a cold wind, He’s gone.

Sammy waits a few breaths more, then crawls into the hall and stands. He begins to trace his path back to the throne.

It’s a slow, wary journey punctuated by Bendy dashing past, close enough that Sammy can reach out and touch Him (though he would never dare). Sammy’s sure that He is just toying with him, like a cat with a mouse. How could Bendy not know where he is, omnipotent and omnipresent as He is? But whatever the game is beneath the one that Sammy knows, he’ll play it to please Bendy. He’ll play it to avoid touching Him.

It’s a mixed sensation, wanting to be near his Lord but wanting to be as far away as possible, as well. It nauseates Sammy, a sensation he’s never experienced before Bendy. He feels torn apart without a single claw having touched him. He keeps moving.

Suddenly, he’s before the throne. He’s almost safe. He just has to — he just has to climb to it.

Sammy can’t bring himself to do it. He’s not worthy to approach, much less touch. Only Bendy deserves a throne to sit on, while Sammy stays cowering on the ground.

He wonders if this is another test, like the ink. A forbidden thing for him to touch or refuse to touch. Sammy doesn’t know which would please Bendy best. He can’t decide, and time is running out. He needs to. What does he fear worse, being caught or Bendy’s wrath? Both are a nightmare lurking at the edge of thought. But surely —

Something chuffs just behind him, air cold and moist on his back. He freezes. He hadn’t even heard — Bendy had been so silent —

Bendy’s tongue licks across his suspenders and over his spine, and it aches. A layer of ink, a piece of Sammy himself, comes away when He pulls back.

Teeth soon replace the cold ache with sharper pain. Not biting, just pressing threateningly into his inky flesh. His tongue swirls out again. Tasting.

Bendy bites into Sammy’s shoulder, and Sammy screams


	4. Consensual

He’s tossed like a rag doll against the wall, and his hands immediately fly to the the crescent of pain across his arm and torso. Sammy is familiar with pain. Existence is pain. But Bendy has been introducing him to entirely new levels of it. Ink oozes between his fingers, and it’s all one lumpy mass of white-hot agony. His head spins as he tries to reorient himself.

Bendy stalks closer, grin unimaginably large and toothy.

“My Lord,” Sammy gasps. He feels sick. Sick with terror, sick with pain. “My Lord, please —“

Bendy growls.

Sammy grovels. If he’s meant to die by Bendy’s hand again, he will die as he should. Terrified, but worshipful. Any other option is pointless. He just hopes it’s quick, because he knows it won’t be painless.

Cold, wet breath blows across his figure. He can feel the teeth so close to biting down. He stares at the grating on the floor, underneath which ink flows sluggishly.

If his Lord wishes for him to die, he will die. He will. A part of him doesn’t want to. Death is the well is a nightmare. But he can be reborn, if Bendy so chooses. He’s Bendy’s to use as he wishes.

Bendy pulls away, there’s a light splatter of ink. “I’d bring ya back,” he says cheerfully. “You’re too much fun _not_ to, Sammy Lawrence.”

“My Lord,” Sammy breathes. Though Bendy is overwhelming no matter his appearance, his smaller form is more comfortable for Sammy. It’s what he expected of him, it allows for communication. Talking to his God. Just the idea still gives him a rush, even with the throbbing pain. Pain from Bendy. He is grateful for everything. Every kindness, every agony.

“I don’t know, Sammy. I’m not really feeling the gratitude. I coulda killed ya, but did I?” He taps Sammy’s mask

“No, my Lord. Thank you for sparing me. You’re my Savior, dark and glistening. I have only gratitude for you, and fear.”

“That’s more like it. How ‘bout you show that gratitude?”

Sammy is silent, trying to figure out what Bendy means. Eventually, he gives up and asks, “My Lord?”

“Don’t think I never saw you havin’ fun with yourself in front of my cutouts. Puttin’ on a little show for me. I bet ya liked the idea of me watchin, ya weirdo.”

“Oh.” Sammy has forgotten, in his more desperate moments, when the whispers grew dimmer and he felt abandoned, how he’d do anything for his Lord to get Him to notice. And he had. He had noticed. Sammy’s breath hitches. Pain pulses across his body.

All those times his faith had faltered, that he doubted Bendy, simply because he couldn’t see him — Sammy is so ashamed of himself. He has to pay penance. He has to perform.

“Yes, my Lord.”

Some remnant shame born not of this life but a previous one makes Sammy hesitate to pull himself free of his trousers. But no, he’s done this before under Bendy’s divine, devilish gaze. Watched him through the cutouts that Sammy would prostrate himself before. This is like that but so much _more_. Bendy’s here, truly in front of Sammy, all ink black and glistening. Bendy’s touched him, maimed him. Marked Sammy as His.

“There ya go, I knew you could get into it.”

Sammy keeps his head bowed as he works himself in his hand. Like the rest of his body, his cock is black and ink-dipped, and there’s no pleasure when his fingers wrap around the hardening length. Bendy is watching. The desire to do well, to please him, causes a familiar anxiety. What does please Bendy? Worship. Sacrifice. Praise.

“Thank you, Bendy. You are my God. You shape the world, grant me life. Thank you for the pain You’ve given me. My Lord, my Lord,” Sammy moans, working his hand over the head, swirling his fingers and dragging it back down. The arousal he feels is so worshipful, and every word he utters the absolute truth. The bite mark throbs and Sammy digs his thick fingers into the wounds, coaxing out more ink.

Yes, yes, his God is watching. This is how it should be; this is Sammy’s purpose. It hurts, but it should. He’s so fortunate Bendy can read his thoughts, because words become difficult as his climax builds, as he hisses in pain that only urges him on further.

“Speak anyway, Sammy,” Bendy says with a laugh. “I like hearin’ your voice.”

“Y-yes, my Lord. You are my God. I’m yours to use. I am your sacrifice, your acolyte, your disciple. Your — your plaything. I’m naught but a vessel to be filled by you, to be hurt by you. Broken and reformed, however often you demand it of me.” His fingers tear in deeper. He pumps faster. “My life is yours to do with what you please. I live to serve you. You are my world and the reason for my existence. My savior, my darkness in light. I kneel before you, praise you, gasp your name. Bendy. Bendy. BendyBendyBendy —“

“Stop.”

Sammy freezes. He teeters on the edge.

“Come here, Sammy.”

Sammy pushes himself achingly to his feet. His suspenders have slipped from one shoulder, and his pants sag open, cock turgid and dripping. Ink oozes down his side from his wounds. The world spins a moment before righting itself.

He hesitates at the base of the throne, but a gesture from Bendy has him stumbling up it.

Bendy sprawls in the chair and spreads his legs. “You been so good that I’m gonna let ya have fun with me instead a yer hand.”

Sammy chokes. It’s an honor he could never have expected. But it’s also a new test, a new performance. He’s terrified of displeasing his Lord.

“C’mon, Sammy boy, offer ain’t gonna last forever.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Sammy kneels just before the throne to put himself at a better height. His hands fumble as he’s not sure where to put them, torn between wanting to touch his Lord and fearing it. Fearing the contact, the destruction he’s wrought already. He settles for bracing himself on the arms of the throne and eases into Bendy’s small body, which takes his girth and length easily. Bendy’s expression remains unchanged, flat eyes locked onto Sammy’s mask. Hesitantly, Sammy strikes up a gentle rhythm.

He’s fucking his Lord. He’s _inside_ Bendy.

“You sure are, buddy,” Bendy says, absolutely casual as Sammy stutters and jerks against him. The only indication that He’s enjoying himself is the happy lashing of his tail.

Sammy’s movements turn more erratic, more frantic. He’s overcome by the agony of his wounds, the euphoria of touching his God, the terror of Bendy turning on him, forcing his way into his body and mind again. He suspects that’s happening anyway, always, every moment of contact between the two of them. His mind is yanked around as though on a string from thought to thought, from worship to obsession to fear. Like a swelling tide, he feels his climax building.

“Okay, stop.”

Sammy obeys immediately. Bendy pulls himself free of Sammy’s grasp and shoos him down the steps. He aches for Bendy. He needs to be inside Him. Sammy had been so close to completion, only for it to be cruelly denied.

“You’re cuter when yer sufferin’, Sammy.”

“Y-yes, my Lord.”

“What if I helped ya out with that?”

“You would debase yourself like that, my Lord?” Sammy asks, though he’d like nothing more than Bendy’s help. Nothing more than release.

“I was thinkin’ as tall, dark ‘n’ stumblin’. How’d ya like that?”

“Oh.” Sammy shoves down the surge of fear that sweeps over him. If it’s what his Lord wants.

“Hah, ya sound a lot less enthusiastic. What’s wrong, don’t like that form? What about my other one? It’s a new model I’m tryin’ out.”

“It’s… it’s terrifying, my Lord.” Sammy aches in his groin and all down his side. The fear of even encountering either of his other forms dances between the two kinds of pain, and he doesn’t know if he’s more aroused or more afraid.

“Good. I like it a lot, but haven’t had much chance to use it. The halls are so small…”

“Could you not make the halls larger, my Lord?” Sammy mumbles. He feels like he’s fallen into some strange dream, where Bendy speaks to him as though they’re on equal footing. As though He’s not a God talking to a mere mortal.

A flicker of surprise crosses Bendy’s face, an emotion other than enjoyment. Sammy feels blessed to have witnessed it, though it frightens him because it is new, and could mean more harm. Instead, Bendy grins again. “Huh. Guess I could. I never thought ‘bout that. I shoulda run it by you way earlier.” He shrugs. “Too late now, though. The old model’s iconic.”

Sammy bows his head. If his Lord wants to touch him with that body, so be it, he tells himself. It’s an honor. A privilege. He doesn’t want Him to do it, yet knows even the thought of that must only encourage Bendy. His Lord is a contrary creature. Cruel, yet He keeps Sammy, so also… Sammy doesn’t know. Maybe that is also cruelness.

He feels Bendy’s gaze on him, and trembles, waiting for Him to decide what He wishes to do next. Sammy’s body slips away from the edge of release that he needs so, so badly. He waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Sammy risks a glance up. Bendy isn’t there.

His presence still lingers, however, pressing down from all sides. Sammy’s not alone. He’s never been truly alone. Bendy is always watching.

Sammy has no clue how long he’s been kneeling before an empty throne. Bendy left without a word, without an order.

So, Sammy doesn’t know what to do with himself now. The realization makes him laugh a little in disbelief. How long has it been since he’s had no commands from Bendy? Sammy can’t remember a time. Even when he didn’t understand, he still heard. Still knew in his ink-pumping heart that he was meant to serve. But it’s silent now. Bendy’s will thrums all around, and yet Sammy can’t translate it.

What a pathetic display.

He climbs stiffly to his feet. His knees hurt from kneeling so long, and his limbs aren’t keen to move correctly. Reflexively, he touches his mask.

It’s by Bendy’s will alone that he can see. That he’s alive. Bendy chose him. He kept him as His plaything.

Sammy circles the throne, then leaves to explore his new home. He’s quite certain he’s trapped here, and the feeling that settles in is just this side of panic. The ink machine is one large cage. He’s no king here, only a pet. There isn’t even the company of instruments and searchers to entertain him. No more sacrifices, no more Alice, no more Borises or Butcher Gang. No more cutouts to kneel before and worship.

He wants to please Bendy, but all his usual routes are gone. There’s nothing to do but wait. It’s almost maddening. But he will wait. He’ll always wait for his Lord to want him. To use him.

Sammy finds himself again at the shore of the ink sea surrounding the machine. It churns sluggishly in some current. There is an entire world down here, below the studio floors, built of stone and metal, that he’s never seen before, and will likely never see unless Bendy wills it. A strange world, but one still clearly within the thrall of Bendy.

When he kneels beside the ink, he can hear the song of the damned and depraved trapped within the ink. Sammy is so, so lucky he’s not one of those poor souls. Bendy wants him. He’s different.

To think, Sammy had feared them before, had hesitated to wade in. Such a pathetic, worthless puddle. It feels blasphemous to fear anything but Bendy. His Lord has shown him the light, the darkness, the void, the well. All of it in his command, and _he chose Sammy_. His bite burns brighter across Sammy’s shoulder. Yes, he is chosen.

“Poor, poor sheep,” he whispers to the ink. “You’ve no idea how pathetic you are. Forgotten, abandoned by our dark Savior. Perhaps you didn’t believe, or wandered too far. Ah, yes. That might be it. Perhaps, dear flock, you’re too steeped in sin. But He will set you free, little sheep. He will —“

Sammy’s words, which came so easily for so long, falter. For all his worship, for all his praise, he’s only lost more freedom. He’s still trapped in a body that disgusts him even as he’s grateful for having it. But he’s gained so much more. Freedom means nothing in the face of favor. Yes. He’d simply interpreted wrong. To err is human; to forgive, as his Lord has so graciously done, divine.

“Have faith, sheep. Sing His songs, moan and cry and beg Him, and maybe you, too, can experience the rapturous joy of being His.” A laugh, smooth and low, breaks free. “I doubt it though. Our Lord seems very… particular.”


	5. Creating

Sammy watched the hypnotic oozing of the ink for several moments more, before he pulled himself away. He felt… antsy. Strange. And he wasn’t entirely sure why. All he could do was hope Bendy returned soon.

He wandered the guts of the machine until he was intrinsically familiar with every agonized figure trapped behind glass and every pipe and valve. He dared not touch anything, though, which left him very little to do. With nothing to occupy his mind, it began to wander over its favorite subject: Bendy.

Sammy couldn’t begin to process his Lord’s thinking, but he couldn’t help but to wonder where He was. What He was doing.  _ One of my favorites _ . Was He with another worshipper?

Sammy kneels at the base of the throne again. He must have faith that Bendy would return. He must trust Bendy. There is nobody else here, nobody else  _ chosen _ . 

His gaze lifts to the cartoons still playing all around. Sacred video, showing a side of his Lord that he couldn’t imagine existing. But they are drawn and animated before his very eyes. Sammy himself had even made the music, he knows from the audio logs, the words in the music department, though there is no sound here. He had always been a prophet — a plaything to Bendy. Playing him songs, lending audio to complete the vision.

It makes Sammy feel hollow, that his contributions are gone from these scenes. That Bendy would sit here and watch them and not  _ hear  _ him. How easily he is replaced by silence.

No, he reminds himself. He mustn’t think that. He’s chosen. He’s his Lord’s plaything. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t hear Sammy every time the episodes play. He must have heard his worship, his prayers, constantly. He sang the old songs, so Bendy wouldn’t need to hear them through the scratchy reels.

He presses a hand to his injuries. With only ink and bone comprising his form, the pain had eventually dulled to a constant, full-body throb, even after he’d teased and torn open the wounds earlier. Just thinking on that frenzy of emotion, that level of need, is heady. Sammy yearns for it again, but fear stills his hand. He should only enjoy himself at his Lord’s command. It aches to do so, everything aches, but he shall suffer it gladly for Bendy.

He just hopes Bendy returns soon, so he doesn’t give in to his thoughts. To the memory of fucking his Lord. It quickens Sammy’s heart and makes him fist his trousers to still himself.

“Wow, ya still there, Sammy?” Bendy asks from behind him. Sammy lifts his head. Just at his weakest, just when he felt about to give in, Bendy returns to him.

“I… wandered a bit, my Lord,” Sammy admits. In body and mind, he’s wandered. But Bendy’s presence is a grounding force, tethering Sammy to the present. Making sure all he can think of is the small, terrifying creature before him.

“S’long as ya didn’t wander right into the ink,” Bendy says dismissively. “I don’t wanna go through the trouble of fishin’ you out. But anyway, while I was off playin’ with my pal, Henry, I got ya somethin’.”

“Henry?” Sammy asks, body suddenly completely numb. Is that the name of this other favorite? A sudden thought of the sacrifice that had started this all. The sheep. Henry.  _ His pal _ .

Sammy felt a flicker of fear, not of his Lord, but of this Henry person. Of the idea of being replaced.

Bendy hops up into his throne and sits on the edge, watching Sammy struggle with this new information.

“My Lord…”

“Yes, Sammy?”

“This…. Henry. Isn’t he simply some menace, attacking searchers, destroying your cutouts?”

“Nah, Sammy, he’s much more ‘n’ that. I wouldn’t expect ya to understand, but…” He trails off teasingly.

Sammy’s heart clenched. Someone special to his Lord. Someone Sammy had written off as just another sheep to sacrifice. He had missed some important piece in Bendy’s schemes. No wonder Bendy had…. had killed him. He has to ask, though. He can’t help himself, though he knows that knowing will only eat at him. “But what, my Lord?”

Bendy clasps His hands and rocks back and forth excitedly. “Buuuut, he’s very special t’ me. He’s my creator, y’know? The man who designed me.” Bendy points at the cartoons flickering on the screen.

Sammy looks at the cartoons without understanding. His God has a creator? The being who made everything was Himself made? And by such a small, piteous creature as Henry. He is nothing, just a man. It’s impossible.

“How? How could something like what I saw create something as wonderful and glorious as You?”

Bendy shrugs.

Sammy has no words, only a silent outrage that this  _ Henry _ matters so much. He had watched him stumbling around, listening to audio tapes and battling searchers. Henry is nobody important. And yet… Sammy fears he mattered more to Bendy than Sammy himself does. His creator. How could Sammy compare? How could Sammy  _ comprehend _ ?

This is some sort of punishment, yes. For his earlier gloating, for assuming he is special. A reminder that he’s not. Sammy is nothing before Bendy. Idiot that he is, he has to be taught this lesson twice over. Never presume anything about Bendy. Never presume his place.

“Y’know what I like about ya?” Bendy asks, and Sammy’s full attention snaps to Him. “You beat yourself up without me havin’ to lift a finger. I just give ya some rope, and you hang yourself.”

“Y-yes, my Lord,” he mumbles automatically, still reeling from the information. Both that someone else matters to Bendy, and that someone else  _ created _ Him. It feels like blasphemy to even consider, but Bendy Himself said it. Sammy isn’t one to doubt his God.

Bendy claps His hands, interrupting Sammy from his thoughts. “Okay, existential crisis time is over. You never answered my question.”

Sammy’s thoughts fly frantically, trying to remember any question Bendy had asked him. He couldn’t have been so callow as to ignore a question from his Lord. He couldn’t have—

“Why don’t ya make any new songs? I like your old stuff, sure, but it gets kinda borin’ listening to the same things over and over. Wanna liven it up, y’know?”

Sammy looks down at his hands, three thick fingers and a thumb on each, nothing but a firm layer of ink that is easily disrupted, easily turns to fluid. His hands bother him second only to his face — he knows they should be different. He has the muscle memory of four fingers, thin and deft, dancing along strings and ivories alike. Yet these are how Bendy’s hands are, for which he is thankful. Usually.

Sometimes, though…. sometimes it’s hard not to want to play like he once did. The notes never come, however, not like he felt they must have once upon a time, when he created songs for Bendy’s cartoons. He’s tried, but it’s not the same, these fingers aren’t right.

“I… my body is ill-equipped for the task, my Lord,” Sammy says. “Not that I am ungrateful for it,” he adds hastily.

“Nah, I never could get ya quite right,” Bendy says, waving His own hand dismissively. “Probably on account of ya bein’ one of my earlier tries. Lemme see your hands.”

He climbs down to Sammy’s level, though Sammy still towers even kneeling, and Sammy gingerly, reverently, places a hand in Bendy’s palm.

Bendy curls His hands tight around it. Suddenly, there’s the sickening snap of bone and white-hot pain shoots up Sammy’s arm. He crumples and reflexively yanks his arm, but Bendy’s grip is firm. “Shh, shh,” Bendy says, as though the words could offer any comfort for the pain of Sammy’s fingers breaking. “Just gotta…. and this here… straighten that…” He mutters to Himself as He works, twisting and pulling, unbothered by the moans of pain from Sammy.

“And done!” Bendy releases Sammy’s hand. Sammy’s entire arm is aflame. He turns his head to glance with one eye at the results.

Four fingers. Thin, deft. More bone than ink, but  _ there _ . He sits up and regards Bendy’s work properly. Curl, uncurl. Every movement hurts, but he’s too enraptured by his hand, shaped how it should be. Though it’s one step farther from Bendy, which causes a sudden sadness. Bendy only has three fingers, and, now, Sammy does not.

“You’re just never happy, huh?” Bendy huffs.

“No! No, my Lord. It’s perfect. I’ll play such lovely songs —“

Bendy grabs his other hand, interrupting him. “First I gotta do the other.”

“Oh… yes, of course.” Sammy tries to show enthusiasm, but his weak attempt is drown out by blossoming pain that has him huddled on the ground again. For his Lord. It’s for his Lord. And from his Lord. He should welcome the pain. The agony. 

Bendy finishes with his hand and leaves him to his pain. As the little toon climbs the gears, ink bubbles around Sammy and forms into instruments. Things Sammy had often longed to play, and tried to to his own frustration. He could play the old songs, but new songs never came and his fingers often fumbled even on familiar notes. For a creative soul to not create is the ultimate torture, and Sammy knows his outlet had once been these instruments, not scrawling desperately on the walls. It was torture, but no more. Now he has the means, the inspiration. Sammy would accept his fingers broken and reformed over and over if it means he gets to play as he once did, in the days he doesn’t remember but feels sometimes deep, deep down.

Sammy pushes himself weakly to his knees, hands curled protectively against his chest. They hurt so badly, but he must play for his Lord. He  _ wants _ to play for Bendy.

He looks over the instruments, then reaches toward one hesitantly, as though afraid it’ll turn again to ink. A banjo. His fingers move stiffly at first, but it feels oh-so-right to have it in his hands now.

Sammy plucks a string. It stings. Another. More pain. That’s fine. The pain comes in swells, dipping and rising as his fingers find familiar ground across the strings and frets. He lets his instinct lead down paths that he’s forgotten, forays that jump and twirl like the songs in the cartoons. It’s bright and bouncy and has Bendy dancing a jig around the throne, unabashedly enjoying the music. Occasionally Sammy circles back to familiar chords, creating something resembling a song, but he lets himself simply feel the ebb and flow of music, goes wherever his fingers take him.

He has no specific memories to rely on, only sensations that ache like memories, of a time before Bendy, a time he doesn’t like to acknowledge. For so long his life began and ended with Bendy, as it should be. His works are for Bendy, his very existence.

So Sammy plays until ink drips down the strings and changes the notes, until his fingers are flayed and the underlying bone catches.

The final notes die under the thrumming of the machine.

Bendy stops bouncing around and claps. “That was really somethin’, Sammy Lawrence! I knew I did great keepin’ ya around. You’re not like them other folks. All sad and scared and depressin’. Which I like, mind ya, but you’re special.”

Sammy tries to slow his racing heart, his rushing breath. His fingers burn. The pain flares up his arms. He feels about to come undone from this sudden, thrilling exertion.

He can play again. Banjo. Piano. Drums and bass. Everything is once again at his fingertips. His ten fingertips.

“Bendy,” he says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. Thank you so much my Lord. I didn’t realize — I didn’t know how much I was missing — yet you —“

“Just keep playin’, Sammy. That’s all I want. Oh, and the worship. And the praise. And the beatin’ yerself up. Hah, actually I guess I want a lot. But you’ll give it to me, won’t ya, Sammy?”

“Anything, my Lord. Everything.”

“Good. C’mere,” Bendy says, patting the throne next to Him.

Sammy looks around as though Bendy could be talking to someone else, but it’s only him and the instruments. Instead of questioning Bendy, especially not after He’s given him something he didn’t realize he’d longed for so, so badly, Sammy ascends to the throne. Bendy scoots over so he can sit next to Him.

Sammy’s sitting on the throne. A sinful action, arrogant, but Bendy Himself invited him. He’s terrified.

“Pet me,” Bendy says as he crawls into Sammy’s lap.

Sammy immediately ghosts his fingers across Bendy’s horns, without thinking because this is what Bendy ordered and thinking would only trip him up, would scare him into inaction and displeasing his Lord. Bendy’s tail immediately begins a lazy, pleased swaying. Sammy repeats the gesture, gets a little more daring. His fingers dance over Bendy’s horns like his instruments, down the back of his head.

“Y’ can pet all over, y’know,” Bendy murmurs. His eyes are closed and his smile is wide. Everything about him is relaxed. Sammy is in awe that he’s allowed such an intimate thing, allowed to see and  _ cause _ it.

Bendy leans against Sammy’s stomach as Sammy, sitting stiff and uncomfortable and so, so afraid of disappointing, lets his fingers wander further, all down Bendy’s back, to the base of His tail, His sides. Bendy purrs happily and nuzzles against Sammy.

“Makes me wanna just gouge ya open and dig myself in,” Bendy murmurs. Sammy’s breath jumps. “But not now, mmm, you’re doin’ a great job with this.”

“My Lord,” Sammy murmurs, as though speaking any louder would disrupt this beautiful, quiet moment. Would prompt Bendy to act on His words.

For now, though, He seems content to just be pet. Sammy is elated, but quietly so, at being this close to his God. Being able to serve, to bring him pleasure in all the ways he never would have thought of himself.

“Thank you, Bendy,” he murmurs again.

“You’re welcome, Sammy.”


	6. Caged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to TailsFan95 for the idea about caging.

He pets and pets until his hands are tired, until the pain from before throbs in time to the machine’s inner workings. Bendy seems insatiable, as every time Sammy’s hands falter or he stops for the briefest of moments, he gets a pinch in his side that brings him back to the present, breaks him from the lulling trance he finds himself falling into. It’s a kindness he’s not owed, but is thankful for. Bendy could so easily ruin him for his failings.

Then, quick as a flash, Bendy’s out of his lap and bouncing excitedly on the floor. His tail is coiling and uncoiling like a spring. “Enough a that, Sammy. I just thought a somethin’ great.”

Sammy quickly scrambles off the throne, unwilling to risk being on it when he’s not serving Bendy. He should never be higher than his Lord. Sammy flings himself to his knees before Bendy. “Yes, my Lord?” he asks.

“Ya can’t go with me like that, silly,” Bendy tuts, patting Sammy’s head.

“Go?"

“Yeah, we’re goin’ to a part of the Ink Machine you ain’t ever been to.”

“My Lord, I’m honored —“

Bendy waves away Sammy’s words, and anything else he might say dies. Then, wonderfully, He holds out a hand to Sammy. It takes Sammy a moment to realize what He wants, and, hesitantly, Sammy slips his hand into Bendy’s. His fingers are thinner, now, long and black against the white of Bendy’s glove. One step farther from his Lord, and yet, He’s right in front of Sammy.

They melt into the floor and travel through pipes that wind so much tighter, so much smaller, than the pipes that pump ink sluggishly throughout the studio. The space they come out of is cramped and dark and, strangely, _warm_. Warmth is a sensation Sammy hasn’t felt in a long, long time. Even his candles don’t offer any warmth to his cold, inky existence. It makes him think of — of light that fell through the cracks on the upper levels. Of whatever exists outside those wooden walls. It’s an ache and a soothing of that ache all in one.

The throbbing of the ink machine is so loud it’s almost deafening.

“Where are we, my Lord?” Sammy asks, and he has to raise his voice nearly to the point of yelling.

“Welcome t’ the heart of the ink machine!” Bendy chirps, letting go of Sammy’s hand (a touch he immediately misses) to step away and gesture all around. Pipes crowd in close and what light there is here is more orange than yellow. The light glints dangerously off of the pipes and puddles of ink on the metal floor.

Sammy’s pie-cut eyes trail along the pipes to where they converge in a tangled mass like copulating snakes. He doesn’t understand the gauges and valves, but understands their importance to the function (or dysfunction) of the studio. The heart of the ink machine, the source of all the ink pumping through.

His gaze slides to Bendy, whose grin reveals nothing about why they’re there, why Sammy’s been chosen to see this. Bendy looks like He’s melting. Sammy takes a stumbling step back, fearing the return of Bendy’s monstrous form, and his shoulder touches a pipe. It sizzles with an agonizing hiss.

Sammy clutches his shoulder with a stifled cry of pain, and he realizes then that he’s melting too in this heat, which is no longer warm but oppressive, claustrophobic.

“On yer knees, Sammy,” Bendy yells over the noise of machinery. “Face t’ the floor.”

Sammy drops to his knees. The floor is hot, but bearable. One hand rises to hold his mask in place as it slips down along with the ink dripping from his head. He lowers his face until the mask is kissing the dingy metal.

“Stay just like that,” Bendy says, voice and presence so much closer now. “Yer doin’ great.”

“Th-thank you, my Lord,” Sammy said, a tremor passing through his body at the nearness of his Lord. He can’t even fathom what Bendy is planning.

Bendy clears it up quickly as something splashes across Sammy’s back. At first he doesn’t register anything but pressure, then there’s a stabbing, burning pain. It feels like something’s melting into him, boiling hot all across his back

Sammy yelps and arches his back away from the contact, but it’s too late.

The ink sears across him, splattering in a long line down his spine.

“If ya move it just gets everywhere, dummy.”

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” Sammy gasps and tries to still his shaking body. More ink splashes, and his back curls. “I’m sorry!” he immediately says, before Bendy can comment. “Forgive me, Bendy. I’m not worth--” his words are cut off in a scream as more ink scorches down his back, flaying him to the bone it feels. He doesn’t dare beg for Bendy to stop, or even lift his head. Ink rolls off of his back, and he isn’t sure if it’s his body that’s melting or just the ink that’s been poured onto him.

“Yer squirmin’ is real funny, Sammy.”

“Thank you,” Sammy groans out nonsensically. It hurts so much. Bendy is blessing him with this, he reminds himself. He doesn’t deserve his Lord’s attention. He’s so grateful. And in so much pain.

Sammy writhed underneath the scalding ink, not bothering to hide it or subdue it as it pleases his Lord. His fingers claw at the crevices between the metal panels of the floor, ink sloughing off like old skin. The ambient heat alone is enough to liquify him. The hot ink is only speeding the process. He’s dripping down, body malforming as more of his mass is lost. Sammy can hear the sounds of the others in the inky puddles, in the ink burning its way through him. He doesn’t want to join them. He wants to remain with Bendy. This is where he belongs, as much as he doesn’t deserve it.

“M-my Lord, please, I’m melting –“ As though to prove his point, his mask begins to slip off his head. Quickly, Sammy shoves it back in place.

Bendy blows a raspberry. “Whiner. Yer just losin’ a bit, not much at all.”

Sammy doesn’t want to disagree with Bendy, but he lifts his hand for inspection. Bone, yellowed with age and stained with ink, is clearly visible between gaps in the ink. He’s having trouble keeping himself together, as more of him is lost into the inky abyss.

Bendy stops dripping ink onto his back, granting Sammy a blessed moment of relief. “Oh. Guess yer back is pretty bad, too. Whoops. Shoulda said something sooner, silly. Eh? Like that alliteration?”

Bendy waits for Sammy to respond, but all Sammy can do is curl in on himself. Bendy kicks him. Sammy grunts.

“I’m weak, my Lord. I don’t deserve your attention.”

“Well ya got it anyway, pal, so shut up. C’mon, let’s get ya somewhere a little cooler.”

Bendy takes Sammy’s mangled hand in His own pristine gloved one and drags him through the floor.

Sammy is barely aware as he’s thrown bodily and collides with the cold metal bars of a cage. His mask finally slips entirely off and clatters somewhere nearby. That shocks him back to reality, but before he can say anything, Bendy slams the cage closed.

“Stay in there ‘n’ fix yerself up, Sammy-boy. Don’t want ya wanderin’ and gettin’ ideas of throwin’ yerself into the ink again.”

Then he’s gone. Sammy slumps against the bars, absorbing their coolness into his being. He loves Bendy, but being around Him could drain the most ardent of disciples (and there is none more ardent than Sammy). Bendy is boundless energy, while Sammy is weak and mortal.

He sinks down to the bottom of the cage, intent on some form of rest, and sits there several minutes before he realizes that this is another test from Bendy. There’s not enough room to do anything but crouch with his knees up to his chest, or stand.

As soon as he becomes aware of it, Sammy needs to move. He needs to stretch out his limbs. They’re already cramping. He stands again. Better, but soon he’ll have to crouch again, stand, repeat the cycle always searching for some reprieve.

He’ll last. He’ll endure. For Bendy.

But Bendy isn’t coming back. Sammy is entirely alone. He can’t even look around, without his mask. He sinks down and reaches through the bars, trying to find it.

A finger touches the edge of it. Sammy stretches a little farther. A little more of the mask is reachable. He tries to pull it toward him. His fingers slip right off.

Again.

Again.

He just can’t get a hold of it. It’s tauntingly close but entirely out of his reach.

Sammy’s blind. Trapped.

“My Lord?” he tries tentatively. Silence.

 

 

 

Time passes, and Sammy suffers. He never would have guessed how quickly being denied movement would wear at him. Everything aches, even beyond the usual pain of his body. He can’t get comfortable. He doesn’t even know where he is, and that’s perhaps the most maddening part of this. 

It reminds him of the time between, not that blasphemous time before Bendy but before he found his mask, gained his sight and his purpose. When he was a blind, dragging slug of a creature. How that time had eaten at him, lost in a void of screaming voices that he could only scream with.

This then, this was the reason he’s caged. So Sammy remembers to be grateful for even the things he takes for granted, such as sight, such as movement.

He suffers for his insolence. As he should. Bendy is so wonderful, so terrifying yet generous, bringing sight to the sightless. Movement to the motionless. And how easily He’s taken it away.

Sammy settles on crouching once his legs start to shake from having to stand. He wraps his hands around the bars and rests his head against one. He deserves this. His thoughts circle that single idea. It's all he can do.

He feels he’s come to accept this truth, until suddenly his pathetic, traitorous mind decides that this is too much. Sammy can’t endure this.

Air catches in his lungs as he tries to breath, as the quiet around him turns into rushing silence. It’s drowning him, as surely as the ink, but horrifying in its absolute solitude.

He jerks against the cage, slams his back into the bars behind him, kicks and drags his hands along the bars, trying to stretch out his limbs, trying to do anything to relieve the cramping and chase away the silence.

Sammy is failing Bendy’s test. He knows this and it only spurs on his struggle even more. He’s failing Bendy. He’s failing himself. He’s terrified.

“Bendy! My Lord!” he howls, his voice the only thing left to him. “I beg you, release me, or kill me or whatever you desire, just don’t leave me like this. Just – please – Bendy!“

Footsteps. Has his Lord heard his prayers? Whether coming to kill him or free him, Sammy doesn’t care.

“My Lord, thank you. I’m so undeserving of your –“

“My God. Sammy?” a familiar voice says. Not Bendy. Not at all.

Sammy truly is in hell.


	7. Crushed

“Sheep,” Sammy growls. Bendy’s favorite. He wants to kill him.

Henry comes closer. It’s not like Sammy can harm him like this, anyway. “Sammy,” he says again in disbelief. “What did he do to you?”

“Whatever he pleases.” Sammy says this proudly, as proudly as someone caged and maimed can be.

“Are you… okay?”

Sammy is silent. He’s not okay, because Henry’s here instead of Bendy.

“I’m going to let you out.”

Sammy’s head snaps up at that, and he glares where he thinks Henry is standing. “What?”

“You wanted out. I’ll let you out.”

Sammy burns inside. Henry had heard his pathetic wailing. That hadn’t been meant for him. It was for Bendy’s ears only.

“I tried to sacrifice you,” he says, choking down all the other words that he wants to say. The curses he wants to scream at Henry. The demand to know why he’s so precious to his Lord.

“And look where it got you.”

Sammy says nothing for a moment, a new idea forming. He must know why Henry is so special to Bendy. How he could have created a God.

“I have displeased Him, yes,” Sammy admits.

That seems to be all it takes for Henry, who says, “Stand back. I don’t want to accidentally hit you.” Sammy can feel the air move as Henry moves quickly, and barely has enough time to squish himself against the back of the cage. Pain lances up his spine from the contact. An ax thuds into the wooden frame of the cage.

Sammy swallows the agony, hides it under a familiar anger. “What are you doing, you idiot!”

_Thud._

“Trying to get you out.”

Sammy holds his tongue this time. It’s brute force and graceless, but he should expect nothing less of Henry. Pathetic.

But, he’s letting Sammy out. Sammy can’t deny that he wants that. He needs to be free. He’s weak, shameful, and so desperate for freedom. If Bendy kills him again for this slight, it would be well deserved.

Henry works tirelessly, flecking Sammy with bits of wood that sting against injuries he can’t see, and soon one of the narrow walls of the cage comes loose. The bars fall with a deafening clatter. It’s enough for Sammy.

He steps out and immediately collapses. Only mere inches away he can feel Henry’s presence. Perhaps judging _him_ unworthy of his Lord. He is, of course, but he doesn’t want Henry to know this as well. Henry deserves to know nothing of him. Yet here Sammy is, practically groveling before him.

It’s humiliating.

Henry kneels down and _touches_ Sammy. Sammy spasms back as though burned, and the sensation of Bendy touching him, Bendy digging into his ink flesh, assaults Sammy’s senses. He slaps Henry’s hand away without thinking, but Henry takes it in stride.

Instead, he presses Sammy’s mask into his hands. “Here,” he says kindly.

Sammy snatches the mask away and puts it on. The strap scrapes against exposed bone, and he smothers a flinch. Though he can’t see more than the bone of his fingers, he can feel the other injuries eating into his back.

He tries to stand and fails. Henry immediately offers a shoulder.

“How long were you in there?”

“I… don’t know,” Sammy grinds out. He needs to restrain himself (though he knows that he can’t do anything to Henry in this state, anyway). Learn about his enemy. “How did you get here?”

Sammy doesn’t even know where here is, but he finally takes a moment to observe his surroundings. Unfamiliar and full of stone. More cages stand empty around them. He’s been removed from his Lord, from his inky throne. It’s painful in a way that leaves no mark. He reminds himself he deserves this for being weak. He glances back at his cage and contemplates crawling in again, but he’s afraid. He can’t endure that.

“I have no idea,” Henry says. “I’ve just been running from that demon.”

“Bendy.”

Henry laughs, though it’s humorless, as he pulls Sammy along. “That thing’s not Bendy, Sammy. I don't know what it is, but it’s not him.”

Sammy jerks his arm free and almost falls again. “How can you speak of Him that way?” _And how has He not killed you for it?_ he wants to add. _How are you so special to Him_?

“What way?” Henry asks, distracted. He’s holding his ax at the ready, eyes locked on several puddles. Sammy wants to take it and embed it in his back.

“There’s nothing in those puddles,” Sammy says. “But you speak of him so casually. Bendy is a _God_.”

Henry glances back at Sammy. Sammy hates the pitying expression on his face. “He’s a monster, Sammy. That’s all. Look at what he’s done to you.”

He starts moving, and Sammy is forced to come along, shuffling slowly behind him. Luckily, Henry doesn’t move that fast, either. Sammy lets the conversation die as he contemplates Henry’s words. The man is clearly mad, helping Sammy after he tried to sacrifice him. There’s no reason to entertain that he might have a point. That Bendy is just a monster. That Sammy has been wrong for so, so long.

No. _No_. Bendy has shown him His power. He kills and brings back to life as easily as fixing a pipe. He controls the very ink of Sammy’s body. Sammy belongs to Him. Sammy is his chosen plaything.

Henry is wrong. Monstrous, yes, but not simply a monster. Bendy is so much more than anything Henry can comprehend. Henry is unworthy of His attention.

Yet… yet Bendy loves Henry. His favorite. A threat to Sammy, but protected by his inky God.

He’s left to stew as Henry leads them nowhere. Henry really has no clue where anything is, and seems to simply be going places at random. Sammy can’t believe Bendy was created by this idiot.

There must be something more to him. Something he’s not sharing. Sammy glares behind his mask. He’ll figure Henry out. Then supplant him. Prove his worth to Bendy.

When Henry comes across a barricade, Sammy lingers a little farther behind. There are searchers just beyond the doorway. Even injured, Sammy doesn’t fear them, but Henry jumps at every drop of ink.

Henry kicks the final board away and dives into the trap. Sammy meanders after.

Searchers rise from their inky homes all around Henry, not even put off by Sammy’s presence like they normally would be. That bites, just a little. He doesn’t know how long he’s been away or how far they are from the Music Department, but he’s used to a certain sort of respect.

Sammy lingers in the doorway, enjoying Henry’s struggles against the tide of searchers. He holds his own surprisingly well, but he’s vastly outnumbered. They must have been hiding in here from Bendy, all clustered together. Weaker beings needed others and gravitated toward one another in this nightmare world of his God’s creation, unlike Sammy who walked alone, shepherd to his flock.

“Sammy, help! I can’t fight them off myself—”

Ah, that feels good. Henry begging. The only person Sammy begs is his Lord, but Henry has no shame. He’s inferior. He should just let him die.

A searcher lunges at Sammy, digging its thick fingers into his oozing side. Sammy stumbles, rights himself, a flash of anger overriding the pain. They dare touch the wounds given to him by Bendy?

Sammy turns on the searcher who attacked him and kicks out, knocking it off balance so he can crush its head under his boot.

And with that he’s joined the fray. He doesn’t need a weapon, only his rage. He imagines it’s Henry he’s stamping on. Another skull crushes with a satisfying crunch, and the searcher fades away. Another. Another.

Soon he and Henry are fighting side by side. It’s exhilarating, asserting his dominance over the unruly crowd. When Sammy first was born from the ink, he had to claw and fight his way to the top, and here he does it again. These searchers will learn to fear him once more.

Quickly the last of the searchers is dispatched with a well-placed ax blow, leaving Sammy and Henry in the middle of a room now void of everything but still, stagnant puddles of ink.

They’re both breathing heavily. Sammy hasn’t felt this particular kind of good in a long time. The thrill of cruelty directed toward others. It reminds him of Bendy, and it pleases him to know he can provide such a similar pleasure to his Lord.

“Th-thanks,” Henry manages to say, leaning on his ax.

Sammy just saved Henry’s life. No. He could have let him die, and surely Bendy wouldn’t have blamed him.

He says nothing, but Henry doesn’t notice. He’s pressing on. Always onward.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Sammy asks. “Are we going anywhere?”

Henry shrugs. “Down?”

His apathy toward his plight drives Sammy to want to strangle him. There’s nothing of value in Henry. He’s little more than an animatronic, always walking forward with no drive, no purpose. Not at all like Sammy.

“Pathetic.”

“What?”

“You’re pathetic. Why does Bendy love you so?”

Henry stops walking and stares at Sammy. “Love?” he asks, then starts to laugh. Each stupid chortle from his mouth is like a slender knife digging into Sammy’s ribs. He’s unworthy of Bendy’s attention, His affection.

“He thinks I made him, but I made _Bendy_.”

“He is Bendy.”

Henry sighs. Sammy hates him. He hates him so much it’s practically a new wound of its own, angry and hot. “Do you remember before this? When you were human?”

Human. A word that reeks of blasphemy, hinting at the time before. “No.”

“We knew each other. Not well, but – you were different, Sammy. I don’t think you even liked the cartoons.”

Sammy’s head snaps to Henry. “What?”

“You didn’t like Bendy. You called the songs you made ‘stupid cartoon songs’.”

Sammy freezes. That sounds familiar, yet -- how dare – how could he – the thought alone –

“Blasphemous liar!” he yells, flinging himself at Henry. His hands wrap around Henry’s throat. “Filth! You unworthy, undeserving, unfit _bastard_!”

Henry drops the ax and scrabbles at Sammy’s arms. “Sammy – what – no, I – urg –“ his protests are cut off as his air is, and Sammy squeezes and squeezes and it’s the best feeling in the world seeing Henry’s face go through all sorts of colors Sammy had never seen before.

“What the heck are ya doin’, Sammy?”

Sammy drops Henry like he’s a hot coal and whips around. His pie-cut eyes alight on Bendy, in his monstrous humanoid form, half embedded in a wall.

“M-my Lord!”

Henry hacks and begins to drag himself toward his ax. Sammy pays him no mind. His full attention is on Bendy.

He fucked up.

Though His form is monstrous, Bendy’s voice is the same squeaky cartoon voice. “Were you stranglin’ my pal?”

Sammy sinks to his knees. “Forgive me, my Lord,” he tells the ground, too afraid to look upon Bendy’s form. Bendy’s steps are laborious and dragging, but Sammy wouldn’t think to even try to run. He knows what Henry means to Bendy, and still he tried to murder him. Idiot. Yet he has to explain, surely Bendy wouldn’t like what Henry was saying. “He was speaking such treacherous, vile lies. I had to. He was saying I hated you.“

By the time Bendy gets to Sammy, Henry is gone and Bendy is in His tiny form. Sammy waits for him to say anything.

When he doesn't, can only offer an “I’m so sorry, my Lord.”

Bendy hits him, and despite his size he easily floors Sammy. Sammy makes no attempt to get up or defend himself. He’s not worthy to be Bendy’s plaything. The silence is damning. Bendy loves to speak, to talk while torturing Sammy. It lets Sammy know he’s doing good, but now? Now there’s nothing but quiet, cold rage.

Bendy slams his foot down on Sammy’s head, and his mask cracks. Pain explodes somewhere in Sammy’s skull.

He stamps again, and Sammy’s head bounces off the wooden floor. Ink spatters. Sammy’s vision splinters and goes dark as the mask falls away.

He doesn’t beg for mercy. He doesn’t deserve mercy. Sammy only deserves to be crushed beneath Bendy’s boot like a lowly searcher.

Unlike the suffering he endured before, this is quick and brutal and unloving. Sammy hates it. His purpose is to serve, and he’s failed even that. All because of Henry.

Ink oozes from Sammy’s mouth. He’s not moving anymore, except for the occasional, feeble twitch. Bendy continues to stomp, jumping angrily like a child having a tantrum.

Soon Sammy’s nothing but a pile of broken bones and melting ink, but god he can still feel himself. Every shattered remnant. He can hear the voices of others creeping in, though, threatening to subsume him. Bendy’s returning him to the inky puddles.

Sammy screams in his own mind, because he can’t scream aloud anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be longer but Sammy decided to not cooperate. Not sure if I want to end it here or have Sammy suffer more, so it's currently open. Also, Doceo_Percepto and I have a NSFW BatIM server for anyone interested! <https://discord.gg/vzCUwN5>


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